work in progress

I know - another Guardian-inspired blog ... but I just couldn't help it! This is one of the greatest headlines I've ever seen:
The world is still organised to meet the wishes of men.

Um ... really? This does fit up there with 'binge drinking causes hangovers' and 'London not centre of universe as previously imagined'. No - seriously - REALLY? Huh. Gee, Guardian, just because you don't have a page 3 girl, did you think that balanced the scales?

I remain, world, as ever, your bewildered and adoring child.

how not to get in shape

1. Live in Leeds in February.

2. Look out window every morning and see: a) rain b) frozen fog c) regular fog d) have your eyes frozen shut and be frozen into the bed.

Okay, I can only come up with two things that don't point immediately to just being a lazy cow. But we did get back out there this morning and I already feel morally and physically superior to everyone who didn't. Especially the students we passed while running still clearly wearing their tribal gear from the night before - and/or clutching that last beer smuggled - ever the very crust of class - from the pub at closing time. Is this how Conservatives start? Is running a gate-way drug to right-leaning sanctimoniousness?

Hmm...well, possible feelings of moral and ethical superiority aside, it's more about not being the fat one at the wedding this summer! Ah it all comes down to fashion ... how shallow. Hey, the unexamined life isn't worth living, but the over-examined life -- well, that's just not living. It's all in the balance. And balance, as I just remarked this morning, is not my forte.

Tottenham is in the Carling Cup tomorrow. We're playing Chelsea but hey, "any given Sunday", right?

the white stuff

Woke up this morning to a snow-covered, rather urban idyll outside. It's mostly gone now but when I left for campus, the ground and the air were the same white. I like mornings like that - it's like pathetic fallacy: I feel like the whole outside world is coforming to the sticky, gauzy inside world of me before noon. Maybe it's the other way round - but it's Tuesday so I'll go with monomania. It's less stressful early in the week to believe I am the centre of everything. Doubt can seep in by Wednesday afternoon and by Thursday evening I'm awash with anxiety. But Tuesdays I shall keep holy for feeling on top of things - if only my little mole-hill.

It was another weekend of foodie-heaven: two meals, both unbelievably delicious and bringing together food, philosophy, laughter and the very best company. We had always heard longing, whispered tales of our friend's fried chicken - they didn't half do it justice. The trouble (or screaming bonus) with good food - good from living to killing to dressing to eating - is that it makes me keenly aware of the complete and utter scam played on diners by 95% of the food service industry. And, btw, that goes for vegetarian options as well - indeed, vegetarian 'alternatives' are generally the worst value-for-money on a menu. Luckily, Nas and I are surrounded by friends who are just as interested in (slightly manic about?) good food as we are - and, even better, are wonderful hosts of particularly discerning tables. I think often of Joseph Johnson's table in the 1790s, presided over by Fuseli's 'The Nightmare' hanging over the fire, and attended by the likes of John Thelwall, William Godwin, and Mary Wolstonecraft. We're that kind of smart. And pretty.


Does the world need my thoughts on eating meat? Not likely. I'm intrigued by the general discussions on the topic that I see and hear around me. Mostly I'm annoyed at the general assumption that someone who eats meat has done so without thought. I get stuck round this one - I agree in principle that the unexamined life is not worth living but gosh, what a pompous statement that is in some respects. And I'm justly (I think) irritated when anyone assumes that a choice that I make is not a choice but a habit. This is not to suggest that discussion cannot follow - I should be willing to defend my choices and to change my mind. That is, live a life constantly under examination.

That got away from me.

I've just bumped into a friend passing through the library who told me the most interesting thing of my day: the 'snow' this morning was not, indeed, the white stuff, but frozen fog. How bloody cool is that??

putting things in order

I have just finished clearing out old paperwork. There is nothing so depressing a old forms, notices, slips, receipts, letters, cards ... they create such a lot of MESS. Last year I had the bright idea of buying a hanging file-folder - as with most objects we buy to put what we already own in, it rapidly filled up and, by hiding what we already had, allowed us to accumulate more. Dastardly. It is those moments when - to paraphrase a childhood heroine - I am convinced of the depravity of inanimate objects. Our bank here insists on sending us a veritable novel each month - not just one, but one for each bloody account. Regardless of the fact that usually there is absolutely minimal movement from the accounts, each is detailed over a minimum of three pages. Over a year, that amounts to -- well, a whole bag of paper that has to be dragged to the office to go into the incinerator cause they've thoughtfully put my account number, sort code, and name on each piece. Then I remind myself that this is the same bank that sends out activated debit and credit cards - as our good friend discovered to her disadvantage. Honestly.

But the point is - it's all gone. Or at least displaced. Or deferred. Anyway, the box feels like a sanctified, organized space. Why on earth does clearing rubbish and achieving some small measure of order provide such psychological balm?

We're going for dinner at our good friends' place tonight - it occurs to me that I tend to refer to everyone I blog about as a 'good' friend. It's either a redundant phrase or a pleonasm. Anyone I think of as a friend is 'good' by definition. I mean, I can't really see my self describing someone a a 'so-so' friend. But then describing someone as an acquaintance sounds odd and 'colleague' sounds ridiculous outside of a professional context. But then, I don't consider the people I work with at the library 'colleagues' - likely, cause it's not my profession. And qualifying friends as 'work friends' just fragments my life too much. Then I have to start keeping columns and worrying about boundaries. I remember a friend back home saying jokingly, the first or second time I called to arrange to have a drink, that we were now 'phone buddies'. But were I to go out to the pub with the whole gang, there would be acquaintances and friends there - but I would relate the evening as a night out with friends, and include people I didn't know as well in that. I suppose because of shared space in both a physical and psychological/emotional space. I've just been reading about Judith Butler on kinship/family and remembering my own research into 18th century constructions of the term (via Naomi Tadmor and Ruth Perry and Jane Spencer) - and considering all that in terms of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Which is to say, sorry for the digression....!

Dinner yes - to celebrate strange vegetables and our shared passion for cookbooks and food. I have a lovely collection of veg: squash, beetroot, rocket - and damn, just realised I'm out of cornmeal for the polenta I had invisaged. Back to shop.

Oh yes, and I have the OFFICIAL LETTER - I'm officially now Dr Kaley Kramer (PhD - Leeds). Damn ham. That sounds nice.

food blogging ...

I nearly forgot that last weekend was so great - and it's already this weekend. It makes me reflect, y'know, on the passing of time and, like, how it's so ... um ... fast ... Yea. That's it. Or something like.

The weeks are a bit packed - and I meant to post about last weekend but Monday got eaten up by Tuesday and so forth. So I find myself at Friday again, on the cusp of another weekend, having passed unreflectingly through five whole days.

Last weekend I finally had lunch at Anthony's - a gustatory ambition from a-way back. And it really did live up - for the most part. It was a celebratory lunch: the end of a promise between a good friend and I to treat ourselves if we ever finished the PhD. I had pork belly - it's my new thing - I had it in London at Bistroteque as well. For starters, we both had cauliflower veloute with Wensleydale and hazelnut oil. To be completely honest, it was caulifrower cheese redux. But hey, my usual dictum when dining out is to eat things that I wouldn't/couldn't make at home. Pretty much anything on Anthony's menus fulfill that! The pork belly was lean and the crackling crackling. To be honest, the crackling could have been improved - I'm not sure how - but then surely that is why I pay them the largish amounts of money for: to figure these things out. Wonderful stuff, crackling - but difficult, particularly in a formal setting, to eat without getting down-home about it all and using fingers and teeth. And I could have done with more than a smear of the lovely pureed sweet potato - though on a side-note pureeing is a bit naff in general. I mean, I have teeth. But hey, they are (as mentioned) clearly doing something right as I was willing to part with my (very very very) hard earned moneys ... Dessert: raspberry and basil sorbet - amazing. And, properly, left me wanting more but very pleasantly full. Ooh and we did splash on the wine: a deeeelightful and deeeeelucious chablis ...

But food bereft of company is a cold meal indeed - and the company was exactly the sort such a meal needed to keep it from being overly-formal and uncomfortably stuffy.

Then, that very night, we went over to our good friends' for food and cards (oh, and more wine!) ... And Sunday, with the help of new allotment mates, we got started on the garden - pictures will follow!

I'm pretty sure I had more to say. And it all sounded much more exciting in my head than written out like this ... Huh.

Sexy things

I am hungry and tired; not good things to be when dealing with THE PUBLIC.


I worked on my (very first!) lecture for two hours this morning. I'm not sure about it - I've never used PowerPoint and I can see how the temptation to but too much information up is there. I think I may already have seccumbed actually ... But it's all so fascinating. I need a snappier title; right now, I've just got: Revolution and Reaction: Treason and Plot in the 1790s - which is to-the-point but not very sexy at all. Perhaps I should replace some of the text with pictures? Maybe some maps. Maps are pretty and sexy - with all there 'ooh come and explore me' manner. It's a thought.


And Torchwood to look forward to tonight - it's like a massive train-wreck of a show: I just cannot look away regardless of how cringe-worthy it becomes. What will become of Cap'n Jack and his band of wandering supernatural vigilantes? Well, thankfully (or specifically, thanks to The Guardian's 'What to watch' section - nanny state! Ha!), I don't have to leave you in suspense, even if you live far far away and have to wait to watch:


Torchwood 9pm, BBC2

"Amid the snarling, shouting and awful, contrived sexual tension between Captain Pratt and the team, there's an interesting idea here - the consequences of leading a double life. Gwen, the moral centre of the show, considers said issue when her nice-but-dim boyfriend, Rhys, apparently one of the few Cardiff residents unaware of Torchwood's existence, discovers she's a member of the world's least secret top-secret organisation. That a giant telepathic alien manatee is involved should by no means discourage viewing."


I, for one, am not discouraged. I welcome such diversion after the intellectually draining day of trying to divine what library patrons actually want from out their garbled expressions of desire - or, even more fun, their sullen silence. If you aren't sure where you sit with the crazy Torchwood team and their time-hopping, alien-seducing behaviour - this review of a season 2 episode made me want to keep watching ...

Sundays are for rest

You would never think that Logan is covered, as most cats are, in fur: as soon as it gets the teeniest bit cold in the house, he parks his fur-covered self under the radiator in the bathroom and stays there the entire day. Nas put a bathmat there a couple days ago - Logan, as far as I can tell, will soon be demanding his meals upstairs. Laila, on the other hand, clearly has some residual memories of living outside and is much more properly gracious to her humans for her timely delivery from the elements. Thus, she prefers to be no fewer than three feet from one of us (preferably both) at any given time. Except her naps - though she does tend to wake up and come running down the stairs to check that someone is still around.

I'm baking bread this afternoon and putting off the last of my first batch of marking. For the record, I'm also currently procrastinating on finishing my 'supporting statement' for job applications, researching for an article due in April, turning my thesis into articles, reading for tomorrow's seminar on Romanticism, the laundry, and ... um ... dinner. In the success column for today, however, we have: slept in with minimal guilt resulting, ate cake for breakfast without increasing guilt, washed dishes including pots and cutlery, thought seriously about attack-strategy for CV while washing dishes, and caught up with news (okay, on FB ... but still ...). Oh I also looked outside and got so annoyed with the greyness that I spent about half an hour searching the interwebs for a cheap flight out of here. For the record, I need to update my understanding of 'cheap' when considering 'international travel'.

There is a massive difference, I've discovered, between teaching 8 students and teaching 30. I can see how that observation ranks up there with finally understanding the difference between swimming in a pool and swimming in a lake - and I mean a black water kind of lake. I guess my seminars at Queen's were nearing 30 students, but the best ones only had about 13-17. Or do I only remember 17 people? How horrible. I'm sure the very best seminar ever only had about 12-13 of us. Every seminar I teach is an attempt to recapture Dr Pat Rae's 1997/8 Modernism seminar at Queen's University. Runner up is Dr Asha Varadharajan's post-modern North America seminar (must have been 1997/8 as well) - but less for the overall experience than her teaching, which I loved. And, of course, I was spoiled (and ignorant of the privilege at the time) in taking American lit from Prof. Jed Rasula. But I think it is a good thing that I haven't managed to come near those experiences of superior pedagogues: I've only been teaching for three years. Surely it would be a very bad sign to hit my apex three years into my career! Anyway, I've been assured that I'll never have all 30 show up again - which is a strange consolation.

But I've put off everything long enough for today ... and I'm hungry.

man is, in fact, an island

Apparently, every year at King William's College on the Isle of Man, students sit a general knowledge test. For the delectation of trivia-lovers (nay, ophiophiles) out there - but mostly for me and my dad, here is the 2007 quiz.

We've discovered - through trial and error (and checking our answers...) that there is a method to this madness, a pattern in the chaos: the answers are all themed in the sections. The first two sections are titled, thereafter, you have to find the link yourself ... for example, section 11 is 'hearts'.

In the first 20 questions Nas and I answered 2 correctly.

When general knowledge creates a general headache ... bang here for relief.

rousing seneca

This + this = ?

I don't understand why, in times of anxiety and national 'stress' (can a nation be stressed out?), the police and judicial powers are allowed - nay, encouraged - to be LESS rigorous in their own internal methods - LESS accountable and transparent. How exactly is that supposed to make me, concerned citizen, feel MORE secure?

Why are we still living in a Foucauldian world of knowledge economy where we, the public, find ourselves in permanent debt?

I hate rhetorical questions.

wrotten language

I'm all for destabilizing meaning in language - upsetting the assumptions that underwrite our most treasured (and hence, buried) cultural narratives - hey, most of my research is in service of that project. I thoroughly enjoy watching such attempts in practice as well - kind of an artistic culture-jamming at the foundations of 'culture': language. But I admit that I do believe that intentionality has to be part of it: ignorant errors or profit-scrounging don't count.

Vegetables that are 'trans-fat free!'; low-fat fried chicken; 'lite' sugar ...

And today, on Facebook, ad advert for 'accurate and ethical [psychic] readings'.

What exactly makes them 'ethical'?

no movie for the masses?

I saw the new Coen Bros. film last night with some friends at the local rep cinema - I had my doubts about seeing it, stemming mostly from my own squeamishness - I just don't do realistic violence well. It's not the blood and guts of it all - I can sit happily through candy-violence like Tarantino's questionably 'good' films - it's the representation of cruelty. In Se7en for example, the depiction that kept me awake for weeks (literally, ask Nas) was Sloth - I was horrified to the point of insomnia that someone, regardless of how deranged, could do that to someone - something - else. In passing, I hate Se7en so I'm not going to provide a link to it.

Hey, I'm a softie from way back. I've learned to live with it. RSPCA and NSPCC ads on the telly make me cry.

But this film didn't - and I believe it purposely set out to minimise direct emotional impact. I disagree entirely with this review - the suggestion that this film - or any film - is 'not for the masses' is incredibly insulting. What masses? Me? That guy over there? What the reviewer implicitly means is people who 'won't get it' - in other words, people who are not them... People who lack the singular mental capacities and experiences that allow the critic to 'get' the 'real meaning' of a film, book, piece of art ... I thought this film was remarkable in its applicability. No one is spectacularly good in this film, but then, no one is spectacularly bad. Yes, I include the enigmatic Anton Chigurh - played to a growly, menacing perfection by Javier Bardem. I'm not going to offer any totalising reads of this film cause I don't have one. I don't think that it is depressing in that nihilistic cop-out that is so often applied to McCarthy and his depictions of the collapse of 'codes of honour'. I do think that the tension in the film is masterfully handled at every level. The use of mirrors and doubling extends through every layer of the narrative - and the usual Coen Bros. densely layered homages to their own celluloid history and to American pop-culture broadly thrilled my inner-nerd (not so inner, you say?). I particularly liked the shot of Tommy Lee Jones busting through that motel door, fully expecting to meet Chigurh and his own end, and facing only his shadow, doubled in the light from the parking lot, recalling the gunslinnger pose of so many westerns and Andy Warhol's iconic Elvis-as-cowboy print.

Mostly, I loved the use of landscape and - damn - I love those accents.

I grew up with the stereotypical northern (Canadian) disparagement for (American) southern accents. They belonged to country music and questionable morals: gunslingers, cowboys, and a wildness that didn't belong (or no longer belonged) in metropolitan, progressive, liberal (central - I now know) Canada. It signified conservatism and the 'establishment', ignorance, and simplicity in men; promiscuity, lax morals, and dullness in women. Generally, in mainstream television and popular representation when I was growing up, the comic relief and the really bad baddies had those southern twangs. The 'good' example might be Uncle Remus who I only met in Disney's Song of the South - or, more recently, Firefly, in which the old South-based planets are more human, familiar, and sympathetic than the industrial-techno-complex 'modern' planets. And like most stereotypes, mine was developed in complete isolation from any real-life example. In the film, however, they are a perfect counterpoint to the acrid harshness of the landscape; even Chigurh's voice is like molasses, dark and dripping, slow and certain. I suppose that that is just as stereotypical. And really, I just love the sound the way some people like a northern English accent, or southern Scottish, or northern Irish, or German, or Quebecois, or Sydney ... or Cape Town, or Cairo ... you get the picture.

local wide web

what follows is the review of my local neighbourhood, entirely cut and pasted from the interesting and somewhat scary website: http://www.upmystreet.com/

you can try it with your postcode (in the UK, at least - i didn't try any Canadian/international ones). i especially like the last line.

* * *

Often, many of the people who live in this sort of postcode will be singles and sharers living in multi-ethnic areas. These are known as type 21 in the ACORN classification and 1.68% of the UK’s population live in this type.

Neighbourhoods fitting this profile are mainly found in Inner London and Outer Metropolitan areas such as Croydon, Harrow, Southall and Ilford. Here is an overview of the likely preferences and features of your neighbourhood:

Family income Medium
Interest in current affairs High
Housing - with mortgage Medium
Educated - to degree High
Couples with children Medium
Have satellite TV Low

These are metropolitan white-collar populations with high concentrations of ethnic minorities.

People are generally younger, typically under 40. There are some single parents, but most households comprise single people renting and sharing flats or terraced houses. The accommodation is small, often only one or two bedrooms. Around 35% of the population is black or Asian. Both minorities occur in broadly equal proportion across this type.

The level of education is above average, and jobs tend to be managerial or clerical. Levels of students, people working in the Public Sector and unemployment are all somewhat above the national average.

These people do not need cars given their urban lifestyles. Instead, they will get about by walking and using public transport. They tend to go to coffee shops, and lunch in pubs or restaurants on a regular basis. They may also spend time in an art gallery or going to the theatre.

Relatively high numbers have cable TV and DVD players. Reading, and sometimes religious activity also play a part in their leisure activities. They have some interest in current affairs and might be readers of The Guardian, Observer or Independent.

Increasingly they will use new technology such as telephone, PC and mobile phone for banking purposes. Many would like to upgrade to gold and platinum credit cards. More realistically, others are planning to pay off their debt.

This is a description of the type of neighbourhood to which this postcode has been matched, it is not a description of the postcode. The overview describes characteristics frequently found in these neighbourhoods. Since most postcodes include a mix of people we don’t expect everyone there will fit the description perfectly. Learn more.

shipping news

I knew this was possible!

Going by freight.

leaving Bro-town and other departures

This is my last weekend library shift. I'm really going to miss working here; of course, I will keep working here in other capacities for as long as I can cling (legitimately or otherwise) to a library card - it's just too good a library to give up ... But I will miss the backroom privileges ... and the quiet weekend mornings ... and the afternoon sun slanting into the reading room:



The issues and returns/enquiries office that I work in is all rich wood and bespoke shelving and I love it. Especially compared to the concrete and carpet of the Edward Boyle Library - which, I'm sure has its own charm to which I am not partial. In the sunshine, the reading room is glorious: sounds are sharp on the wood floors and desk but the air is rich and dusty. It is exactly the kind of space I thought I would have as a post-graduate student. And I'll miss my weekend team cause it was all so very casual and lovely. And I'll miss all the chocolate biscuits ...


In other news, I've done my first online shopping - for clothes (I'm an old hand at online bookshops!). I'm very excited. My friend recommended a UK company, Howies, which was having a sale, after I was complaining about the lack of options in the city centre: H&M (yuk and the shop is a tip), M&S (disappointing in that department store way), Primark (no, nay, never), Principles (Hah!) ... There is a Arkadash shop in Headingley, which is fantastic. I'm trying out another resolution - buying fewer clothes but of better quality (and therefore, I appreciate, more expensive). I was inspired by a woman I heard on CBC radio while I was home over Christmas who resolved for a year to buy nothing 'made in China'. I have problems with this seemingly arbitrary restriction, it is true that in Canada (or at least the Golden Horseshoe bit of it) it is increasingly difficult to find anything NOT 'made in China'.


It's strange because as much as I object to the gung-ho push to globalisation, particularly in the soft-sell, sentimental rhetoric that cloaks the deepest, darkest, most horrifying economic bottom line, I also would not advocate isolationism in any sense really. It's a thinker. But that being said I do find it easier simply to stick to clothing, food, and other products that I can at least stand behind in terms of my own ethics - which as I pointed out in an earlier blog are alright really.

the law is an ass

In December 2006, 5 women were killed around Ipswich in the run-up to Christmas. The case is just coming to trial now - and being reported on now, in (you guessed it!) The Guardian. So I read with interest the highlights from the prosecution's opening address (which will continue for another couple days). Then this:

'The prosecutor, [Peter Wright QC] who told the court that he would probably spend today and part of tomorrow outlining the case against Wright, went on to say that all five victims had resorted to prostitution to fund their drug addiction.

He added: "In each of their cases, this decision was ultimately to prove fatal."'

Um... what decision? Their decision to become drug addicts? (I thought that 'no one said "I want to be a junkie when I grow up"'?) The decision to turn to prostitution to fund their habits? While possibly showing poor judgement in both cases, neither of those decisions was 'fatal'. Does Peter Wright QC actually mean to suggest that these women somehow had a hand in 'deciding' their deaths? Last time I checked, murder kinda took that decision out of the victims' hands ...

So I'm confused. I think it is enough that 5 women had to die in order for one death to be taken seriously (how many in Vancouver again?). I think these remarks are callous and reveal a continued unwillingness to consider these women as victims of a crime; they insist implicitly that these women were inviting such atrocities through their lifestyles. None of these women decided to die. To suggest anything otherwise is disgusting.

India

I still don't want an ID card and I continue to ponder my responsibility as a citizen of this big, wide world. But I have a new thing: India. Nas and I have decided to go to India - not now, or even soon, maybe next September? maybe if we don't find permanent posts right away, we could move there...?? Or at least, move somewhere new and slightly warmer than Britain. Without ID cards.

So yes, India. I have never been particularly interested in the sub-continent - mostly because most of the people I've met who professed a deep and spiritual connection to India were annoying, inarticulate, and smelt slightly of patchouli and sandalwood. I know people, on the other hand, who really do love India and maybe being around them has infected me - or overcome my unfair bias against a country based on fairly limited (and limiting) perspectives. Or I could be completely honest and reveal my own superficiality and admit that it was The Darjeeling Limited ... India was the most sympathetic and stunning character in the film. And yes, part of me really does want to go to that India - you know, the clean, pressed, incredibly polite, but thoroughly modern and sexy India; a fictional construct so appealing that I would watch the film over and over again just to get to know her better. Mostly cause that India is risk-free: no poverty, no strays, no questions - just a pret-a-porter spiritual awakening.

I've never been anywhere that really confronted me with difference - and I cry at NSPCC and RSPCA ads on the telly (especially the latest RSPCA one). I don't want to discover myself - or India - I just want to see it for myself. And everything seems to be pointing that way for me lately - like mentionitis with a whole country... Maybe we'll love it and never come back! Maybe I'll hate it and be a horrible combination of the worst traits of a Canadian and British tourist.

So if anyone has advice, please send it along. Or contacts. Or rupees.

one of these things doesn't belong

I realise that this blog is becoming a running reaction to The Guardian - it being the news source I read most frequently (or at all...). I will find some other source of commentary I promise. But for now, this scared me cause I think, for the first time in my life, I am the object of an article like this.

I am a foreign national.

And I don't want an ID card.

I wouldn't want a Canadian ID card if I lived in Canada and the scheme was reversed (giving ID cards to citizens). I like how they have turned it around here though - suddenly not as much reaction when the target of this nationalistic, jingoistic branding is resident aliens - or 'foreign nationals' since we're being so PC about it.

I've never felt like I didn't belong here. And I've never before felt like I might not want to.

the principles of the thing

A friend of mine says that people always think 3 things about themselves: 1) they are a good friend, 2) they have a good sense of humour, and 3) they are good in bed. Not spectacular in any category but I think most people would have to be really stripped down - psychologically - before they give up on these things. Of course, that is more pithy saying than actual fact - I've never conducted any kind of poll to back this up. But it rings true. To me.

Which is the point of the moment: the other thing that most people would generally 'admit' to is thinking themselves generally all right really. Again, not in a spectacular way - but at heart, all right really. That is, the very best of intentions + the usual time/money/energy equation which leads to can't-be-bothered-at-this-moment but will certainly do something about it on the weekend... Hey, I'm not about to claim that I'm any different. In my heart I am the most ethical of ethical consumers - my home a veritable shrine to sustainable living principles. In reality, I don't make the time nor save the money - body and mind at rest certainly resent the initial push to move in any direction.

It's not that I think that there is a moral absolute that I'm failing miserably to meet. It's just that morality and ethics are impossibly difficult to tease out. Can I be less accountable because my bank balance determines my purchases? Does that excuse buying Fairy washing-up liquid (every bubble a dead fish or destroyed habitat) for 99p rather than the extra 90p for Ecover? What about less directly economic concerns? or at least ones that don't affect me directly? What about the more difficult issue of political and ideological support? And just how far down the rabbit-hole can I go? The question of fair-trade, especially around clothing and household products - formaldehyde in my furniture? - is something I haven't even broached. How long can I claim that it's pointless for me to consider it, as we don't own our house?

In short, can I be a little bit good? And can't I lie-in just a little bit longer?

beyond means

We went to the champagne bar in town at the posh new Electric Press building in Millenium Square last night. It is really really nice. I could get used to that being my regular watering-hole ... someday! As the end of an otherwise kinda crappy day, it was perfect. Actually, it wasn't a crappy day - I just didn't get any sleep the night before as I had an existential breakdown due to exhaustion and decided that there was no point in being worried about anything because the vast majority of people are assholes. Why should I care? I know, really deep and profound revelations do happen at the oddest hours ... I should add another resolution:
* read positive news
The point being, I was exhausted and had to spend the afternoon at an induction meeting for the university I'm working for this semester. I'd been fixated on these woolen trousers I found in the city before Christmas and planned to buy them yesterday afternoon. They weren't there and trying on other trousers made me doubt the advisability of me being publically visible at all. I know - again, I demonstrate such poise ... I have my moments. Had I been alone, I would have crept home and gotten over it eventually. Luckily, Nasser had come with me and rather than laughing at my sudden reversion to the kind of person that I detest, talked sternly to me until returned to sense. Then we returned the world to our own norms by having some sushi.

The reason we were at the champagne bar - Epernay - and living so above our current means was to meet my new work colleagues, one of which is a very dear friend. They are lovely and I am reassured (but still nervous) about being a real university instructor out there in the wide, wierd, and wonderful world of academia. Nasser came with me - he more than deserved a expertly poured martini having finished and submitted his PhD thesis over Christmas - for which I was glad. Silly cocktails taste better in his company (and yes, if you are curious, stars sparkle more brightly and I am wittier and more brilliantly beautiful when he is there too).

Such senitmental admissions remind me of a song Nas played for me the other day - 'Every Day is Christmas'. It's online and I'm too lazy to link it here. It is THE sweetest song I've ever heard - completely without ennui, malaise, or melancholy. I love it.

2008

This will be a great year. I am sure of it. I'll admit that my resolution - not to allow myself to become overly anxious on a daily basis - has already been tested: by the stressed-out students at the library, by the train on the way home from BSECS in Oxford, by going to BSECS in Oxford rather than just coming home after Christmas, by new jobs and old jobs, by the fact that bills in any form make me break out in a cold sweat even before opening the envelope... But in spite of all that, it's going to be a great year.



Cause it was a wonderful Christmas - admittedly, it was a strange Christmas. I haven't been home with just my parents and sister since I was about three years old. The house was so quiet. But it was lovely nonetheless - dad and I found the most perfect tree, which exactly fit the traditional tree-corner (well, as traditional as possible as it was only the third Christmas in my parents' new house!); mum still made the same amount of Christmas food - which meant loads of extras for us! And we got to plan my sister's wedding - well, I got to offer jewels of wisdom that may or may not make it to the final cut... And the completely girly joy of shopping for dresses...! Nothing like a summer wedding to keep me running this year (August = bare arms...).

Classes start in two weeks.

Other resolutions:
* publish thesis as articles
* become model of multitasking, organized academic not unlike supervisor
* become stunning example of fitness and poise
* listen more/talk less
* read A LOT

Realistic. Definitely.

I also didn't get to see nearly enough of people in Canada - I never do really. My big huge impossible resolution will be to sort out how to make Canada and England closer together - geographically I mean. OR rob bank - buy island - forcibly move all friends and family to island where we live happily ever after. Possibly change first part to 'win lottery'? I should start playing...